Perfect
by aspirer
Summary: Just how much does Michael care for Sara? Set during Season One. T for mild violence. Flames and concrit welcome.


Disclaimer: A Scofield of my very own would be nice, but no, I don't own anything.

Her pale hand curled around her hair, brushing it from her face. She tiptoed delicately through the puddles in the asphalt as she hurried to the staff car park, droplets of light rain twinkling on her skin. A pair of blue eyes watched her through the fence. In those eyes, she was perfect.

Suddenly, she saw him watching her. To his satisfaction, she allowed a small, courteous smile to grace her features before she looked away and continued to run. Almost unconsciously, Michael laced his fingers through the fence, leaning forwards, if only to see her for a couple more seconds.

"That's a nice li'l piece there, ain't it, Mac?" Michael's hands steeled at the sound. He looked behind him where two inmates stood ogling the doctor as she reached her car. Their smug grins and sniggers made his blood boil. He clenched his teeth and began to walk away when one – Mac – spoke up to him.

"Tap that, would ya? Huh, Scofield?" Michael stopped in his tracks, a similar smirk playing across his lips. He shoved his hands in his pockets and meandered over their way.

"I dunno." He spoke easily, distantly. "If she'd have me."

"I'd have her whether she wanted it or not-" Mac was lifted off his feet abruptly and slammed into the fence, Michael's hands around his throat, his eyes clouded with rage.

"Hey bro, what the hell's your problem?" the other con grabbed Michael and pulled him away. The three faced off, Mac massaging his bruised neck while advancing on Michael.

"Want her all for yourself do ya, lover boy?" he chided. Michael matched him in stature, squaring his shoulders and walking forward to meet him.

"She's perfect." Michael growled under his breath, too low for anyone to hear. Mac was talking again, lewd, suggestive comments about her, but all Michael felt was a strange ringing in his ears and an uncontrollable desire to shut Mac up. He swung his fist straight into Mac's stomach, more power than he'd ever experienced before spurred by his anger. Immediately, Michael was tackled to the ground, by three, maybe four bodies. He'd never known this much pain. Booted feet, gouging fingers, rock-hard fists, blood and sweat flying. Mac and his gang had broken his nose. A few ribs. Ruptured something maybe. His ear dripped scarlet. Their voices were muffled, but he could hear them laughing.

Then suddenly, nothing. He was numb. Had he died? He blinked slowly, the grass beneath him furring into focus. The C.O's were roaring orders, pinning cons to the ground. Michael felt rough hands around his shoulders pulling him upwards. The words 'Tancredi' and 'infirmary' reached his ears through the buzzing. Someone had turned the lights down. But there were no lights outside. Someone had turned down the sun. The world slowly went dim.

"Michael!" he blinked and suddenly he was in the infirmary. Her face swam into focus. Perfect as always. From her white teeth to the tiny furrow in her brow that appeared whenever she was frustrated. He'd noticed this of course. Her hands felt cool. They were moving his head to the side, slapping him slightly. "Wake up, Michael."

She sounded angry.

He sat up, slowly. She watched him without moving, her face marred by fury. He tried to ask her for an aspirin. A bandage for his blood soaked ear. But his voice was hoarse.Her face softened slightly into an expression of weary despair.

"Why?" she asked simply. Michael didn't answer. "I reach my car and seconds later, I turn around and see you leap on a guy and subsequently get beaten into a pulp. What went so wrong in those couple of seconds?"

He shook his head. It hurt. She made an impatient sound and stood up abruptly, grabbing bandages, antiseptic and cotton swabs. She set to work on him, cleaning, binding, and dressing his wounds, the less-than-gentle manner of her hands and her chilly silence a clear message of her current opinion of him. He sat very still, wincing inwardly. He would never tell her the truth. How could he? She'd already expressed her concern for his safety numerous times. Told him he might be killed. How could he explain what had set him off without sounding like a snitch, a pathetic con with a crush? No. He could never tell her that the reason he was sitting here, bloodied and broken, her indignant hands obligated to treat him, was because he thought – he _knew_ – she was perfect.

AN: I debated over that last line because, obviously, Sara is far from perfect, as we all are, but I thought it was an interesting angle – to see how far he'd go for her, how strongly he felt for her. Agree? Disagree? You know what to do.


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